


What If It's Up To Us?

by jamwrites



Category: What If It's Us - Becky Albertalli & Adam Silvera
Genre: Angst, Benthur, Gay, Jessie shows up for a hot sec, M/M, Spoilers, but mostly it's just the OG gay nerds, everything is so gay, gay fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-07
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2020-01-06 11:47:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18387836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamwrites/pseuds/jamwrites
Summary: An epilogue to the book's epilogue, in which Arthur pulls an Arthur move, Ben is Ben, and (very) gay drama ensues.Excerpt:Except this time, I don’t need an impromptu flash mob or a wedding proposal or a sign from the universe. I just sprint the last half block to him and catch him and spin him around and hug him so tight I might actually break one of his ribs, because he’s here, he’s here he’s here he’s here.“Ben,” Arthur wheezes, “Ben, you’re kinda hurting me.”





	What If It's Up To Us?

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimers:
> 
> I have no idea how the following things work:  
> 1) The book publishing industry  
> 2) AirBnb  
> 3) Lyft  
> 4) New York
> 
> It's also been a while since I read the book, so I've forgotten how long the space between the end and the epilogue was, so I kinda just spitballed it. Sorry!

**ARTHUR**

_Friday, April 5th_

 

“Oh my God.” I’m reading the opening line of the email and haven’t even made it to the first period when I cover my mouth--literally, like I’m in a crappy movie, clapping my hand over my mouth.

I slam the laptop lid closed and shove it away. My heart won’t calm the fuck down.

Did I read that right? Maybe I didn’t read that right. Maybe…

Slowly, I inch forward, gingerly open the laptop, and re-read the first line of the email. And keep reading. And reading.

“Oh my God,” I whisper to myself.

“Are you okay?” My roommate, a short, red headed dude named Alex, looks up from across the room where’s he’s in bed, previously scrolling on his phone, now staring at me like I’ve broken out in a possibly-infectious disease.

“What? Oh, uh...yeah. Hold on. Sorry.” Suddenly the room feels too small to contain the electric yellow energy that’s been injected into my sternum. I grab my computer, swing my legs out of bed, and fast-walk out of our dorm. I barely make it to the stairwell before I’m FaceTiming Jessie. I would call Ethan on the group chat too, but with the break-up being so weird...yeah, I don’t really wanna touch that right now.

Jessie picks up on the second ring. “Arthur? It’s, like, midnight.”

“Yeah, I know, I just…”

“Were you running? You look all sweaty and anxious. More than normal, I mean.”

“No, I--I got this--” Words seem to be leaking from my brain and missing my mouth. I literally cannot make myself speak straight. “Here. Look.” I flip the phone camera around and point it at my Gmail inbox. I wait while Jessie reads, mumbling the text aloud to herself like she sometimes does when she’s concentrating.

Then: “Oh my God.”

“I know.”

“Arthur... _oh my God_.”

“I _know_.”

“This is…”

“Right?”  
“I can’t believe they really…”

“Yep.”

“Are you okay? You don’t sound okay.”

“I might be having a panic attack. A good one. But I’m good, we’re good.”

“You’ve told him, right?”

The question swings a baton straight into my excitement’s knee caps. I shift around on the cold stair I’m sitting on. “Um.”

Jessie frowns at me. “No way. You haven’t told him? How could you not tell him?”

I don’t answer her. Instead, I look at the email again. The sender? Only the alpha pack leader super commando chief of Harper Teen. It’s hitting me now, for real, like the first time I drank my fourth shot at a Wesleyan party and realized I may have been a little out of my depth, classic Arthur-style.

The space between Jessie’s question and my answer stretches on and on.

“Arthur?”

  
  


**BEN**

_Saturday, April 20th_

 

I’m about ready for somebody to come pull a Dumbledore in the sixth Harry Potter movie and apparate me out of this subway hellhole.

It seems like every single train’s been late today, and that’s _after_ I got out of the apartment 10 minutes past my usual time because our dryer had quit working in the middle of the night. I had to spend time ironing out a half-soggy and fully-wrinkled shirt which froze in the unusually chilly April morning air as soon as I stepped outside. Thankfully, the day itself went by without too much else going wrong, and now I’m almost home where I can crash and play video games for hours while blissfully ignoring homework. At least, until Dylan catches me active online on Whatsapp and texts me to get back on my shit.

But all of that dissolves when  I get a text from Arthur.

 _Hey, are you home rn?_ _  
_ I can’t help but smile. We talk a lot, but even now, seeing his name pop up on my preview notifications screen is like a teeny little defibrillator going off in my chest. Which, of course, starts the avalanche of usual thoughts about us: How much I’d give to see him again, how much I just wish it was last summer again. It’s been almost a year (okay, 3 quarters of a year), and I can still smell Arthur’s t-shirt from the last time I buried my face in his shoulder. Eight  months and I still catch myself thinking about how cool it would be to hold his hand right now or kiss him or big spoon him in bed and tangle up our legs and wrap my arm around his chest--

I shoot a text back, trying to ignore my own dumb brain. _Almost, why?_

_Cuz I just wanted to tell you how cute that pink shirt is._

Wait, what? I look down at the shirt Dylan gave me last week, from some new hipster coffee place he’s obsessed with. How would Arthur know I’m wearing it? I haven’t posted a Snap or Insta story, and unless I’m suddenly suffering severe memory loss, he and I haven’t FaceTimed today.

Unless…

I look up from my phone.

And there he is.

I know it’s a thing for people to say their jaws drop. Like, when Dylan tells the story of how he first met Samantha, he’ll say something like “and my jaw dropped to the floor and I had to scoop it up because people were walking into it.” But that’s Dylan-speak for just being stunned. This is more than stunned. This is: my jaw is actually open, because I can’t compute the fact that Arthur is here, standing in front of my apartment building. Not in my phone. Not writing to me in an adorably megalong Arthur Letter. But here, in a button-down shirt and glasses, grinning at me with those superhuman blue eyes that catch me so off guard, just like the first time I saw him.

Except this time, I don’t need an impromptu flash mob or a wedding proposal or a sign from the universe. I just sprint the last half block to him and catch him and spin him around and hug him so tight I might actually break one of his ribs, because he’s here, he’s here he’s here _he’s here._

“Ben,” Arthur wheezes, “Ben, you’re kinda hurting me.”

“What? Oh, sorry.” I stop anaconda-squeezing him and step back, and then we’re looking at each other, both out of breath and red-faced. There was a time when we would have gone in for a kiss. But I’m not sure if that’s okay now. I mean, of course I want to kiss him--he’s Arthur. But we also broke up. But it was also a great break-up? But it was still a break-up.

Arthur coughs, looks down at his shoe, and then up again to smile at me.

“Hey.”

“Hey? The first time I’ve seen you in almost two years and you hit me with a ‘hey’? Nope. Not happening.” I shake my head and pull him in for another hug. And, okay, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t breathing in all the Arthur-smell I could get, or remembering how he feels under my hands. And I have to step back sooner than I want because of my dumb below-the-belt trying to rise, well, above the belt.

But also? I kind of don’t care, because it’s Arthur, and no matter how weird or unspoken things may be between us, I haven’t seen him in so long and nothing could ruin that.

“What are you doing here?” I can’t seem to stop smiling. “I mean, I’m happy you’re here, but it’s--you know, it’s just been--”

There are actual, literal dewdrops of sunlight catching in his eyelashes as he grins. The universe can be a real jerk when it wants to.

“Oh, you know. I’m on spring break, so I thought I’d just pop over.”

“It’s a five hour train ride from here to Wesleyan.” I know this because I’ve Google Mapped it. Many times. Shut up.

“And a Lyft. I’m well aware,” Arthur says, looking supremely proud of himself. “I was supposed to fly home a week ago, but I got permission from my CA to stay in my dorm a while longer so I could come here and see you. Well, actually, I stayed longer because my mom needs to run up here to take care of some stuff at the New York office anyway, so we’re just going to go home together.”

“And you just thought you’d, what, pop by?”

“Well, when you say it like that.” Arthur laughs. Holy mother of--I’ve missed that laugh. So, so much. Then I notice something else: Arthur’s gotten a little taller since the last time we’ve been together. Or maybe he’s just holding himself up a bit straighter. He certainly seems more outgoing, if it’s even possible for Arthur Seuss to be more outgoing. I guess a semester of college has been pretty good for him.

He scrubs at the back of his head. “Do you think I could actually come in? I have something I wanted to, um, to talk to you about.”

My heart flutters and I instinctively tamp it down. But then, why should I? Arthur came so far out of his way to see me. He obviously has something he wants to talk to me about. What if he’s here to ask to get back together?  
But why would he? Our living situations haven’t changed. I mean, sure, Wesleyan is a lot closer than Georgia, but it’s still two hours. Not like we could see each other every day or spend a whole ton of nights sleeping together in bed--

Nope. I’m getting way ahead of myself.

“Yeah, come inside.” I open the door for him, thinking about how Ma and Pa won’t be home from work for another couple hours. And of course, my thoughts go straight to my bedroom.

But no, that’s not smart. Or realistic. Is it even what I want? Not to say that sex with Arthur wasn’t amazing. It was. Mind-numbingly amazing, actually, ten out of ten stars. But we were also dating back then. Could I really want to do that to him? Treat us like some sort of casual hookup thing?

All of this rockets through my head as we head up the elevator, Arthur chattering away about his ride over and about school and all the people he’s met and classes he’s taken. Pretty much every word he says is another reminder of how much I’ve missed him, and I can’t believe I ever though talking over the phone was anywhere near as great as experiencing him in person.

The boy must have lungs the size of wine barrels, because he barely takes a breath but keeps on talking anyway, as if the space of time it takes our elevator to reach the top is the only time we’ll have together.

“--Ginny freaked out, and yeah, she spells it like Ginny Ginny, like Harry Potter Ginny--she totally flipped shit because Kenzie got the police called up to her room and everyone had to stall them outside the dorm while Ginny threw wine bottles under her mattress. What?”

“Nothing,” I say, smiling, just taking him in.

Arthur flushes red and I do too.

***

I hold open my room door for him. “So, what did you come here to tell me?”

Arthur peers around the room, looking like the old lady from Titanic when she held her long-lost necklace. He wanders over to my bed and flops down, drawing his legs up close.

“It’s less something I wanted to talk about, and more something I wanted to show you, I guess? The only bag he’s brought is a backpack, which he lifts up and unzips.

“Sounds slightly ominous, but okay.”

Arthur’s face is lit up by his computer as he clicks around. I watch him and--Instagram does not do this boy justice. I could study his face forever, which is a bad thought to have about somebody you aren’t slash can’t be dating.

“Ha! Here.” Arthur looks at me, mouth twitching with excitement. “Okay. So. A while ago, you know how you finished _The Wicked Wizard War_?

I crawl into bed beside him, sitting cross-legged. “I may be familiar with the work, yes.”

“Okay. Well, I loved it. Obviously. Everything about it. And a lot of other people did to, as you know. You have like, more than fifty thousand views on Wattpad. So, I took a few liberties and poked around and packaged it up all nice and...well, earlier this month, I heard back.”

I’m not following Arthur’s train of thought very well. “Heard back from who?”

He doesn’t answer, but turns his computer around. It’s logged into his Gmail, and he has an email open. I start to read.

From: LindsayNorton@harperteen.com

To: [ ArthurHamilton01@gmail.com ](mailto:ArthurHamilton99@gmail.com)

Subject: Your Manuscript

 

**ARTHUR**

I watch Ben’s eyes flick back and forth across the screen, widen, blink rapidly, flick to me, then back to the screen. He reads it again. And I can’t freaking stop smiling.

“I…this is...this for me? For _The Wicked Wizarding War_?”

“Yeah.”

“But. I don’t. They want to. They want to...” He can’t seem to get the words out, so I do it for him.

“They want to publish it, Ben. Full hardcover release, Barnes and Noble displays, everything. Like, _everything_ everything. They even have a preliminary movie adaptation deal or clause thing in there but apparently that’s just standard for any YA fantasy or adventure or sci fi stuff now. And you also have to work with an editor on some revisions but that’s all just minor stuff--”

“They want to publish it.” Ben very slowly closes the laptop and gets off the bed. Paces the room. “They want to publish my book.” He turns to me. “I don’t understand. I didn’t send them my book.”

“I know; I did! When you finished it. At first I wasn’t really going to, but then I brought it up to my dad, and you know how he was talking about at our first dinner how he wanted to write a book? Well, one of his web developer friends had published a thing on design. And _he_ has an agent for that who knows another agent who does more YA stuff, so I sent her this and she loved it and she sent it to this Lindsay person who’s apparently the Queen in Chief of this publisher division, and she adored it too, and--they want to publish it, Ben! That’s what I came here to tell you. They love it so freaking much. They think it’s, like, the next _Harry Potter_ or _Carry On_.”

I rocket off the bed and hug him, but his arms are limp beneath mine. Probably from shock. Definitely from shock. Ben doesn’t seem to be able to think many thoughts at the moment.

“Wait wait wait, back up.” When I let him go, he walks across the room and sits on his desk. “So...you sent my book to this agent lady?”

“Yeah, and--”

“Wait,” he says again, this time with a little more urgency. And he’s holding one hand against his forehead, eyes squeezed shut like he’s trying to work out a difficult math problem. “You sent it to her? Without asking me?”

“Well, uh, yeah.” I stutter. What is he talking about? “I mean, I did. But only because I thought I would surprise you. You know. Like this.”

Something feels seriously off here. Ben’s face is getting all splotchy, but not in the way I used to be used to. He almost looks sweaty. Which is weird, and very un-Ben-like. Ben is not a sweaty person. I should know; I spent a lot of one-on-one time with Ben’s bare skin.

Aaaand I push that little thought right back out the entrance it came in. I know exactly where that path leads, and it’s only going to be harder actually being here in person, where I can do something dumb like act on my emotions.

Woah. I’m _here_ . It didn’t really occur to me in my mad dash over here from Connecticut that I was--it sounds stupid, but that I was actually going to _see Ben_. Ben Alejo. As in, the first non-(grand)parental human I said “I love you” to. That Ben. My Ben.

The same Ben who’s currently looking like he’s either about to laugh, cry, throw up, or perform any combination of the three.

“Ben? I know it’s a lot to take in, but you should be excited! It’s going to be--”

“Sorry. I’m still just...it’s a lot.” Ben studies his hands. “It’s just. I’m confused, I guess? As to why you sent it in?”

“I told you, because I wanted to surprise you! I knew you were never going to do it yourself, so I thought, like, why not, you know? The world at large deserves to read _The Wicked Wizard War_ . Nay, dare I say, they _need_ to read it.”

“Thanks. But...Arthur, that was...that was kind of my call.”

I frown. “What was?”

“I don’t know, sending my book to a publisher?” Ben looks at me for the first time. “That’s kind of a big deal, don’t you think?”

“Um...yeah,” I say slowly. “But you shared it with me first and you wrote me into it, so I just thought--I guess I thought it was our thing.”

Ben blows out a long, long breath. This was definitely not how I envisioned this going. Daydream-version of this was: I tell Ben about the book. He gets wildly excited. Confetti cannons burst in through the window and out from the ceiling, as we make out, drink champagne, and continue making out--

\--then what?

That’s the part that always gets me: I don’t know. We make out and I go back home tomorrow? That’ll only make things worse.

“Sure. I mean, I shared it with you, but...I came up with it. I spent so long writing it. In my head it’s always been mine.”

Oh.

I bite my lip. “No, yeah, I agree. I’m not trying to steal it from you. I get that. I just thought--”

“--and if it’s mine, it’s my decision whether or not to send it to a publisher. When I’m ready. On _my_ terms. Not your dad’s friend-of-a-friend agent, not some random publisher.”

“It’s not random, though, it’s Harper Collins, one of the Big Five--”

 _“That’s not the point, Arthur!”_ For the first time, heat seeps into Ben’s voice, and I suddenly feel weird about sitting on his bed. “Don’t you get it? You’re off at this great super-elite hipster college, and I’m here. In New York, at my parent’s apartment. You’re gonna be a doctor or a philanthropist or something amazing. You have all this stuff going for you, and all I have--the _one thing_ I can point to and say ‘that’s mine. I accomplished that’, is this stupid book. Everything about it is supposed to be mine. Even if you think I’m ‘never going to send it in by myself’, or whatever.”

Silence.

I force myself to swallow.

Ben’s crying a little, but he drags the back of his hand across his cheekbone. And there’s this yawning pit opening up in the center of my chest. I don’t know what to feel. Mad at Ben? Or myself? Both? Everything’s just so completely sideways from what I expected, so entirely not what I pictured, that I have no clue how to react. This was supposed to be the part with the swelling orchestral music. The pan across the city skyline. The shot from outside as we kissed in the window.

But instead, Ben’s just sort-of-yelled at me for maybe the first time ever.

And it really, really sucks.

 

**BEN**

What am I doing? More accurately, what is Arthur doing? The answer to that is: being Arthur. He’s the only person I know who would drive through two states (maybe three, my geography is a little rough) just to show me something he could have emailed me. And here I am, freaking out on him for it and it feels and looks like I’m kicking a sad golden retriever puppy.

But that puppy also went way, way out of bounds. Like, it crawled into my bed and stole my phone and gave it to some other, random, adult dog and they both chewed on it together.

I want to be happy. I know I should be feeling happy, but--but the only thing going on right now is this weird instinct to grab everything of mine I can see in the room and hug to to my chest. I stand up, then sit down, then stand up again.

How could Arthur do this? Why did he ever think he had authority to just copypaste my book off Wattpad and email it off to some person? I know for a fact he read _Simon Vs. The Homo Sapiens Agenda_ and understands the cruel power of emails. Okay, maybe the person wasn’t totally random, but still. I was wrong when I thought surprising me by showing up in person unannounced was the most Arthur thing Arthur could have done. Stealing my book and shoving it into the world without asking me and then thinking I would be happy about it-- _that’s_ Arthur.

“Ben?”

“I need some air.”

I know it’s the most cliche thing ever to say, but it’s true; my tiny bedroom and my tiny stupid bed and my tiny freaking desk chair just aren’t enough. I reach for the door but Arthur gets there before I do.

“No, it’s your place. I’m the one who should go. Bye. Sorry. Bye.” His voice is seriously wobbly. I can tell he’s trying his best not to cry, and that makes me want to cry more.

Before I can say anything, Arthur’s fast-walking to the apartment door and I’m standing here not following him and not following him and I keep on not following him, like I can’t even bring my legs to move.

And then he’s gone.

I slump down on my bed. Hold my head in my hands. This has to be some sort of sick joke the universe is playing. The first time I see Arthur in forever and he shows up with the grand news that he’s stabbed me in the back? Like I’m supposed to be throw a party for him?

And the worst part is, what I said to Arthur wasn’t a lie. As much as I like staying in contact with him--okay, more than like it, to be honest; getting a call from him instantly makes my day--sometimes it’s hard to constantly be regaled with stories of how amazing Wesleyan is, and how many friends he has and how many guys he’s kissed and all the cool classes he’s taking or to get these beautiful Snaps of his campus. Like, yeah, I’m going to college too, but I’m stuck here living with Ma and Pa because we couldn’t afford living me living the dorms. Sometimes it doesn’t even feel like I’ve left high school; campus is so spread out around New York that I only see the same people when I’m in class, and I have no clue how people hear about parties or other campus events. Arthur’s life looks and sounds like a movie. Mine’s just...a life.

But what I’m proud of, truly, actually legit proud of, is _The Wicked Wizarding War_ . When Arthur half-joked about me becoming a famous millionaire author, I never told him how that was actually sort of what I was fantasizing about: having my J.K Rowling moment where, after getting rejected by a two dozen publishers, somebody takes a chance my book and it blows up and the rest becomes history. But that process should have been something _I_ went through. My book, my struggle. And as much as I want everyone to read _TWWW_ , the idea is also terrifying. Anonymous people and numbers on Wattpad are one thing, but having my name out there and people knowing who I am--that’s....a lot. That’s more than huge: it’s life changing.

Sure, my current life drives me crazy, but I also don’t know if I’m ready for it to go away completely.

I flop down on my bed and immediately leap back up again when the corner of something hard arp digs into my shoulder blade. Upon further investigation, I find that it’s Arthur’s laptop, which he left here along with his backpack in his hurry to get out.

Gingerly, I open the laptop back up. Arthur still has the same password: _ASHamilton_ , which makes me smile despite myself. I swear I’m not logging into poke around anywhere; I just want to read the email again. To make sure it’s real, I guess, or just to see it. I don’t think I even got all the way to the end the first time.

His Gmail is still pulled up, so I scroll back to the Linsday Norton lady’s letter that was forwarded from the agent. There’s all the stuff about how she and her team loved the manuscript and would like to begin preliminary negotiations for a book deal and seeing it for the second time stands my hair up on end. Somebody read my book who wasn’t Arthur or a rando Wattpad user (which some small part of my brain is convinced aren’t real anyway) and they _liked_ it. They want to spend money on it. A lot of money. Linsday doesn’t specify in the email itself, but she does use phrases like “multi-media marketing campaign” and “royalties”.

I keep reading past all that though, until I get to Arthur’s response. Respons _es_ , to be precise, as he sent an extremely energetic reply two minutes after Lindsay’s acceptance letter. And then another, calmer one a few minutes after that.

I bite my lip.

And, right as I’m looking at the inbox, a new email appears in the thread.

 

**ARTHUR**

The thing about New York is that even though it’s always changing, nothing is ever really different.

That’s what I’m discovering as I wander around the streets I used to walk on every day. Sure, there are new faces, but there were new faces every day when I had my internship here and they eventually all just became the same anonymous person. It’s like white noise.

White noise that I’m very, very bad at dodging. I keep bumping into people and they keep bumping into me and yelling things but I don’t really hear them; all I can think about is the look on Ben’s face. Even as I pull up AirBnB and choose a room nearby to rent for the night, the only thing I see is Ben, wiping his cheek with the back of his hand.

I take a Lyft to my room, which is only a few minutes away from Ben’s. I could stay with Uncle Milton or crash in Mom’s hotel room, but all I want to do is be alone so I can cry.

Maybe Ben was right and I’m the asshole here. I was so freaking excited for him to get recognition for his book that I never even stopped to think if it was my place to thrust that on him at all. Classic me. Trying too hard, especially when nobody asked me to.

The AirBnB is a nice little one bedroom, one bathroom apartment that’s decked out in white furniture and house plants like somebody’s Pinterest board manifested itself onto our physical plane of reality. But if I’m being honest, it’s actually super cute, and falling onto the plushy sofa does make me feel the tiniest bit better. I groan into a pillow, and then the groan turns into prickling at my eyes, and then I’m crying all over the couch and I hope the owner doesn’t charge for tear stairs.

Because it’s hitting me how hard I could have messed this up for Ben. I was super unprofessional in my email back to Linsday; I didn’t even email the agent, which is what any sane person would do. No, I went straight for the jugular of mess ups and emailed the head of the publishing division and straight up admitted that I basically stole my friend’s book and gave it to her without asking. What if she rejects it out of hand now? What if she doesn’t believe Ben when he tells her that he’s the real author? And then she’ll tell all of her other publisher friends not to talk to those Arthur and Ben weirdos and nobody will even look at Ben’s book ever again and it’ll never be made into a movie franchise starring Thomas Brodie-Sangster as me and some cute actual Puerto-Rican-not-white-washed actor as Ben and have both of the real us’s in background cameos all because I’m a stupid, stupid idiot.

Hiccuping, I pull out my phone and check my Gmail. Nothing from Linsday. I stare at the response I gave her, the one where I spazzed out and used about thirty too many exclamation points and then told her I wasn’t even the author of the thing anyway. Even looking at it makes me feel queasy.

Okay. If I’m being honest with myself, maybe a part of the reason I sent in the book was because it made me feel closer to Ben in a weird sort of way. Like it would be one more thing stabilized us when the universe seemed so intent on mushing us together and pulling us apart. Because the thing is, Ben’s been all I can think about this year at school. Okay, not the only thing; there have been other boys I’ve kissed and maybe even thought I’ve had crushes on, but nothing has come close to the sheer level of heart-fluttering awesomeness I felt with Ben. Feel. As in, currently am feeling, even in this suck-pit of despair.

I’ve really, really missed him. I’ve missed hanging out with him and making him laugh and telling him about Broadway shows I’ve been to and reading new chapters of his writing and--and also tugging his arm closer around my chest. Leaning my head on his shoulders and having the weight of his head settle on mine. Curling my fingers through his, bringing them up and kissing them and having my brain do that weird thing where it can’t really feel which fingers are mine and which are his. I miss literally every single thing about Ben: the way he smells, the patterns of his speech, how messy his room and life in general are. Even the un-romanized things, like how much he screwed up with us sometimes but how hard he tried to fix it. Him being an ass about always paying for stuff even when we both know he can’t really afford to. His very not-cute cafe t-shirts he wears to make Dylan happy but whose awful colors go with nothing else he owns.

Maybe I’ve been tamping it down a little while I’ve been away, but seeing Ben again has opened something up in me, and it’s starting to sink in how awful it’s been not to have him around.

We left things at a weird but good place, weird because it was so good. We technically broke up, but it also didn’t feel like it, and then there was that phone call a few months ago where we both pretty much insinuated we would like to get back together but never talked specifically about how that would happen, and...and I guess I thought it would all just go away after a little bit. If I didn’t have to see him every day, maybe it would get easier to not want him.

And for a while, it did.

But with the idea that he might actually hate me, I’m realizing that even if it hurts less, I don’t want to not want Ben. The universe may have put us together always intending for us to break up and learn some grand cosmic lesson about love and life.

But also, fuck the universe. The universe doesn’t get total control over I love.

I do.

I’ve spent so much time trying to push the thought of Ben away. But now I can’t stop thinking it: _I don’t want to not want Ben._ The thought of not having a crush on Ben is almost worse than I can handle imagining.

I don’t want to not want him.

I roll over and sludge onto the white faux fur carpet like a lame Jabba the Hutt. I did a lot of stupid stuff when I was with Ben, but never something to this caliber. Why can’t I just stop to think something through, like, just one single time in my life?

There has to be a way I can fix this. Maybe I can still do something. Maybe…

I open up Gmail, tap “reply”, and start typing.

_Dear Ms. Norton..._

 

**BEN**

Arthur sent the email literally one minute ago.

_Dear Ms. Norton,_

_I apologize for emailing you again. I just wanted to follow up my previous response with an addendum of sorts. In reply to your offer: though I am incredibly humbled, this really isn’t my decision to make_ . _I told you before that my best friend in the world wrote this book but I never told you_ why _I was the one to send it in. The thing is, I’m an impulsive wreck. Pretty much everything I do in my life, I do fifty percent overboard and without thinking it through. I thought I was being a good friend by making this decision for him, but I wasn’t. In fact, I was being sort of  a terrible friend. So, I want to introduce you to the real author of_ The Wicked Wizarding War.

_Ben Alejo is the most talented writer you will ever meet. I know that sounds like hyperbole, but it’s actually not. More than that, though, he’s my favorite person in the world. He’s friends with his parents and isn’t ashamed of it. He doesn’t think he’s smart but he is; he knows New York, and he can read people’s emotions like a playbook and can pass any test if and when he actually tries. He’s extremely proud of his heritage and I know this because I’ve stepped on that once or twice. And he’s the kindest, most considerate human being in all of New York state, perhaps even the continental United States. He once won me tickets to Hamilton, lost them, and then had a two hour telepathic conversation with me using only Broadway songs, all in one night._

_I guess I’m telling you all of this so that you can see that Ben is a real person. A person who wrote the book that you enjoyed so much. Somebody who shouldn’t get his chance messed up just because his friend is an idiot. I know that this is all probably highly unusual, but I I am not going to throw away his shot. I have to try to make things right._

_So, I hope you can give us a little bit of time. Everything Ben loves, he put into this book. I don’t know how much of a difference it makes to say but I’m not some random stranger who stole Ben’s book. In fact, I love him._

_He deserves this._

 

_Sincerely,_

_Arthur Seuss_

 

By the time I reach the end of the email, my eyes are trying to pull another waterworks trick and I’m not strong enough to keep the stupid things in check.

How did I ever get lucky enough to run into this boy?

Maybe a little bit more urgently, how was I stupid enough to drive him away? Am I really going to shove Arthur off the first time we see each other in ages?

I should just grow the fuck up.

So I pull out my phone and text him.

_You left your backpack at my place._

_Just realizing that,_ he texts back a few moments later. I have to wonder if he was watching his phone, if he hesitated when he saw my nam. Even the thought of him considering ghosting me hurts.

If I was smarter, I would take that as a sign.

Another text from him: _I know you probably hate me but can I pick it up from you? Or from a drop box in the middle of a desert where you don’t have to look at my stupid, traitorous face?_

I shake my head, biting my own smile. This boy, this boy this boy this boy.

_How about I just bring it to you. Where’d you even go?_

Arthur sends over an address. The street is close, at least by New York standards.

 _Be there in 15._ I type out the next text as fast as I can and send it before I can stop myself.

_You really want to see me?_

_Of course. I’m not throwing away my shot either._

_What? Oh my god, you have my computer. Oh my god. OH my god._

_See you soon :)_

***

I call Pa and let him know I won’t be home when he gets back from work. Filling him in on the whole Arthur situation would take too long, so instead I spin a white lie and say I’m heading over to a friend’s, which I know he’ll assume means Dylan or Harriet or someone. Is it wrong if his brain lies to him instead of me?

The entire time I’m en route to Arthur’s AirBnB, I’m flashing through last summer like a slideshow. Now that I’ve seen him again, it’s like I can’t get him out of my head--not that I’ve ever been able to do that before, but now it’s gotten so much worse. And of course it crosses my thoughts that I’m heading to an apartment that we’ll be in together. Alone. Alone in together.

Again--way, way ahead of myself.

“Thinking about someone?”

“Hm?” I take my forehead off the car window when the Lyft driver says something. She’s a middle-aged woman with a huge head of curly black hair, and her eyes are scrunched up in a smile when I catch them in the rearview mirror.

“You’ve been looking out that window and sighing to yourself for the last five minutes,” she says. “And you can’t stop smiling.”

I would be more creeped out if her car didn’t smell like caramel and warm hugs. So, instead, I nod. “Yeah, I’m on my way to see somebody.”

“She must feel pretty lucky, to land a handsome young man like you.”

“It’s a...it’s a he, actually.”

Her smile deepens. “Well now, shame on me for assuming.”

“And we’re not...I mean, he’s not my…” I trail off awkwardly. What am I even doing? Spilling my guts to a random taxi driver woman?  
“Do you like him?”

“I--yeah. Of course. A lot.”

“And he likes you.”

“Definitely.”

“Then I don’t see what the hold-up is here.”

We pull up to an apartment building, and she puts on the hazards because the spot we’re in is a handicap and also metered. I run a hand through my hair.

“It’s more complicated than that.”

She winks at me in the mirror as I climb out.

“Doesn’t have to be.”

 

***

 

Coming up to Arthur’s door, I’m strangely nervous, as if I’m about to pick him up for prom and pin a flower on his lapel while his parents coo and take photos. Everything just happened so fast once Arthur showed up that I’m having trouble letting it sink in; this crazy rollercoaster that showed up out of nowhere, strapped us to its seats, and sent us on the most whiplash-y ride I’ve been on since--well, since the last time I was with Arthur.

“Hey,” Arthur starts when he opens the door, but I cut him off.

“We’ve already been over this once today--you do not see me for the first time in two years and get to start with a ‘hey’.”

“But...this isn’t the first time I’ve seen you. I saw you today. Like, an hour ago.”

“I know.” We’re standing in the doorway, leaning against it, actually, leaning pretty close to each other. “I was sort of hoping we could get a do-over.”

“Infinite do-overs?” Arthur says with a hopeful smile. I can’t believe he remembers that conversation--but, of course I can, because he’s him. Of course he remembers.

When I meet his eyes, I can tell that there’s a lot going on in that head of his, but mostly I’m struck again--like I always am--by the sheer volume  (measured in metric tons) of attraction I feel towards him. My body is trying to auto-reflex its way into hugging him and maybe doing some more than that, too. But I ignore all that and keep his eyes held with mine.

“Infinite do-overs,” I agree. “Sounds like us.”

But then, for some reason, the moment’s slipping away, Arthur’s shrinking in the doorway.

“I messed up. I’m sorry. I realize how utterly stupid I was and--”

“Arthur, it’s okay. I read the email.”

“I know, but still. I thought you would wanna hear it from me.”

I sigh and rest my head against the doorframe, closing my eyes for a brief moment. All around us the city is still going on with its life; I can hear cars passing and people talking and some kid crying down the sidewalk. But none of it seems quite real. Nothing except for me and this front step and Arthur.

“Look, I won’t lie. I meant some of the things I said. Some of them. I’m super protective about _The Wicked Wizarding War,_ but you knew that. And yeah, you did sort of fuck up with that behind-the-back move.”

“I know.” Arthur’s voice is so, so quiet, and I know I won’t get all the way there with words, because I’m terrible at words.

So instead, I take his hand.

“But, I shouldn’t have said that stuff about you and your future. Or thrown myself a pity parade. I never, ever want to be somebody who makes you feel bad for achieving what you want. Or for being uber smart. I was...I was being an asshat. And you were just being you: sweet and thoughtful and a little too enthusiastic. We’ll just call this one a draw.”

Arthur’s still staring at our hands. It’s the first time they’ve held each other since that last afternoon, that last goodbye.

“But what if I messed it all up? Like, for good?”

“Then whatever. I’ll write another book.”

And then, before I can stop myself, I pull Arthur in for a hug and squeeze him as tightly as I’ve been imagining and bury my head in his shoulder, even though I have to bend down a bit to do it.

“It’s just a story,” I whisper into his skin. “It’s not real. But ours is. You said it yourself, Arthur: Everything I love, I put into that book. And that includes you.”

We’re both almost crying.

When we kiss, we don’t try to hold it back.

 

**ARTHUR**

All the thoughts and worries and plans and what-ifs and nevers and all the other crap is blasted straight out the back of my skull as if shot from a circus cannon, and in its place is a deluge of Ben--

Until Ben pulls back, breathing hard. “Wait, are you sure you’re okay with--”

I think I try to say something but my brain is way past the point of formulating intelligent speech, and next thing I know I’m reaching up and putting my hand on the back of his head (it’s a ways up there) and pulling him down and kissing him, kissing him _hard_ and--

\--there’s clapping? What now? Can’t I just kiss this beautiful guy in peace?

I break off and look behind Ben, where a woman is parked in a car with her phone propped up on the center console: his Lyft. She’s laughing and shaking her head like what she’s seeing is the best show since _Hamilton_.

“Is she...is she clapping for us?”

“Told you it didn’t have to be complicated!” The woman waves once before pulling away from the curb and out into traffic. Ben watches in shock as it drives away.

“Did you know her?”

“Um, no, not really.” His neck is flushed red when he turns back to face me. “But she seemed cool. Not creepy, right?”

“Right. Do you...do you want to come inside?”

“I would love to.”

 

***

 

We have the whole apartment to ourselves, so naturally we both squeeze in the tiniest space possible together.

I’m laying pretty much all over Ben on the couch, my butt between his legs and my back against his chest, but sort of half-twisted so I can keep my face somewhere near his and my heart can’t keep its dumb self still because every inch of my body touching Ben’s body is like, the best thing I can possibly imagine in this universe or any other and holy wow have I forgotten how good it feels to be next to him. I have no idea how long its been, but for we’ve been riding each moment like an ocean swell, alternating between making out and just being content to lay with each other, Ben’s fingers sifting through my hair.

“What was that?”  
“I miss you,” I say again, taking my face out of the collar of his t-shirt, craning my neck to look up at him. His dark hair is mussed in the sexiest freaking way I could possibly imagine and I almost forget what I’m saying. “Like, present-tense miss you, even though you’re sitting right here. I’ve told you about those other guys, right?”

Something aching passes across his face. “Yeah.”

“Well, I never was able to get close with them. I never really understood why,” I look down to where my hand is rubbing patterns on his chest. “I guess I just thought I was nervous, with college being new. But…”

“But what?”  
“Nevermind, it’s stupid.”

He takes my jaw in his hand and tips my head back up. “No, it’s not.”

I swear. Every time I think my adrenal glands can’t freak out again, they manage to dig a little deeper and make my hair stand back up on end. At least I know I’ll be able to lift a car off my child like those stories about mothers in K-Mart parking lots, if it ever comes to that.

“It’s just--you. It’s always been you, Ben. You’re in the back of my head when you’re not in the front of it. I tried, I really, actually did. But I love you. And it’s not really going away and for the longest time I wanted it to and I was waiting for it to disappear because it might have been easier or something, I don’t know, but...I don’t want it to. Maybe it’s not going away because it’s not supposed to.”

Ben scootches a bit so we’re sitting up more, but he doesn’t stop looking at me. “I love you too, Arthur Seuss,” he half-whispers. “But what are we going to do?”

And now we’re back at that last day, standing outside his school knowing that we had just a minute or so left, kissing and saying goodbye and knowing it was kind-of-sort-of-for-good. We have the same choice. If this isn’t the universe giving me a do-over, then I truly don’t know what the hell is. I mean, c’mon, right? There’s gotta be some sort of cosmic Mom God throwing popcorn at the screen and telling her OTP to go for it.

So I kiss him. Hard.

And I’m half-tempted to find a Bleachers song to play in the background, but when I touch him, I forget about it, only coming up for air when I absolutely need to.

“I don’t care. I don’t care, as long as it involves you. You’re two hours away from me if I drive. I’ll get a car. I’ll make the trips. There are long weekends and breaks and summers and--”

“Arthur--”

“The universe gave us a love story, Ben.” I drag myself into sitting up position too so I can face him eye to eye, because he has to understand this. He _has_ to. “And maybe it’s over. Maybe last summer was all we got. But I’m so past the point of caring. Even if we were meant to just meet to learn some lesson about falling in love and moving on--”

“ _Arthur--_ ”

I’m almost crying now, I’m so scared of what he’s going to say. How can I get this through? “No! Ben, I. Don’t. Care. I’m literally incapable of being with anybody else. I tried but I fucking miss you and I’m tired of missing you and--”

“Arthur!” Ben practically shouts, which shuts me up. He almost never raises his voice. Like, ever. “Arthur,” he says for the fourth time, softer, and his fingers are tracing their way up my neck. “I’m not trying to argue. I agree.”

“What?”

“I want to date you. For real. Right now. Wherever that takes us.” On “us”, his fingers brush over my lips, and then up my cheeks, and over my eyebrows.

Neither of us say anything. We just sit there, looking at each other, legs tangled and coats thrown off at out feet, when my phone chimes. The Gmail chime. Because yes, I have a special tone set for it and yes, I have it memorized.

I lunge to scoop it up; the lock screen shows an email.

From Harper Collins.

Holy fuck.

“It’s Lindsay.” My hands are almost shaking too badly to enter my passcode, but when I open it, I stop. I look at Ben, who realizes it the same time I do.

“This could be her saying no.” It takes every single pound of willpower I have to get the sentence out. “Ben, this could be what I screwed up for you. Like, actually. This right here.”

He doesn’t say anything. Until he does.

“Everything I love, I put into that book. I still love those things. They’re not gone.”

“That’s really romantic and all, but that would also be, like, 90,000 words down the toilet--”

“Trust me, I’ve written longer fanfics than that”

“What about--”

“We don’t have to look at it.” Ben smiles crookedly. “I’m okay with it. Whatever she says. But we don’t have to look right now.”

This time it’s my turn not to speak. Sucking in a big lungful of air, I hold it and let it out slowly through my nose as I hand the phone to Ben. I nod and he nods back, and then doesn’t even read it to himself first before starting out loud in a surprisingly steady voice:

“ _Dear Mr. Seuss and Mr. Alejo,_

_I have to admit that this was one of the more unusual days I’ve had in my career. But then, you also have to understand that writers are an unusual lot to begin with, and I also used to work as a waitress, so it’s safe to say that I have pretty thick skin when it comes to unusual circumstances. While I agree that you, Mr. Seuss, were most likely in the wrong to submit your friend’s novel without first obtaining permission, that act in and of itself was not illegal as you never claimed authorship yourself. I commend you for the apparent emotional journey you’ve since gone on and emerged the other side of, unscathed but (hopefully) changed for the better._

_Yes, my team and I are still very enthusiastic about this manuscript. As I said before, we believe it has great potential. Far be it from my place to deny this boy you love from achieving what success he deserves. In fact, he should be honored to have somebody as loyal as you in his life. Likewise, if the names of the characters have anything to do with real life persons, you yourself should take a moment to reflect on what a special friend you have in front of you. I would dearly like to meet the real author of this book. Apparently, he lives in New York. I have an office just around the corner from pretty much anywhere in this city, so I think having lunch together would not be out of order. While it’s not typical for me to meet personally with authors so soon in the process, I find young minds are often more than worth having a good_ _tête-à-tête with._ _It keeps me on my toes._

_Mr. Alejo, I once more wish to express our joy at your work. You have written a wonderful love story and I believe the world needs to hear it._

 

_Best wishes,_

_Lindsday Norton_

 

 

**BEN**

_Monday, April 29th_

The irony of me standing in a post office carrying a two-arm-load box of boyfriend-related stuff is most definitely not lost on me.

A short list of some other things that are not lost on me: a) The man the front of the line who has definitely not put on deodorant since last February, b) My soaking wet shirt that used to be dry but didn’t remain that way when a downpour started on my way over and the stupid box was too heavy for me and my weak legs to run, and c) Arthur, who has called at least six times in as many minutes.

I awkwardly set the box down--since the BO man is taking a while to argue with the poor lady at the mailing counter--and pick up. Arthur’s beaming at me through Facetime, which of course makes me smile too.

“Hello, Mr. Future-J.K.-Rowling-Except-Better-Because-You-Will-Take-Good-Care-Of-Your-Expanded-Universe.“

I can’t help it, I laugh at how serious he is. “Wait, are you still not over that?”

“Babe, you’re the hot up-and-coming fantasy author, how are you so chill about the whole mess the Wizarding World is devolving into? It’s a major crisis of our generation!”

“Hm, I guess I’m just more concerned with my cute boyfriend I never want to stop looking at than some random white lady I’ve never met.”

“Joanne Rowling may be white, but she’s not random. Do you think you could manage to get lunch with _her?_ ”

I laugh and blow some wet hair out of my eyes. “What happened to hating on her?”

“I mean, she still created Harry Potter. C’mon.”

“You’re one incomprehensible guy sometimes, Arthur Seuss—.”

“You’re the one who wanted to date this guy. Speaking of, did you remember the sweater? The--”

“--Magical Sweater That Somehow Fits Tiny Arthur and Large Ben, yes, got it,” I say, rummaging through the box until I find its sleeve, just to be sure. “And also my shoes, and two pairs of jeans and our blanket, my pillow, and a really big box of chocolates.”

“Chocolates?”

“Yep,” I wink, ignoring the feeling of people in other lines listening in on our conversation. When I glance over I catch a girl maybe a few years older than me staring, and when we make eye contact she gestures at my phone and at me, and mouths “adorable.” I blush so hard I almost lose blood flow to the rest of my body. “Yeah, they’re for us to eat during the musical marathon. Hang on, it’s almost my turn. Love you, gotta go.”

“Alright, loveyouseeyousoonbye!”

I pocket my phone just as I’m waved to step up to the mailing counter. I pay the postage and fill out the form for Wesleyan, where the box will go to Arthur’s P.O. It’s full of stuff, but this time it’s my stuff, and it’ll stay in Arthur’s room so I don’t have to keep lugging it back and forth every trip I take. Arthur sent his own box the day before yesterday, and opening it was like diving into a pool of him. Not gonna lie, I definitely sat on my bedroom floor and just buried my head in his t-shirts for a while, inhaling as hard as I could, which is only not weird to me because I’ve seen Dylan unashamedly do it a million times in front of me with Samantha’s stuff.

I have no way of knowing if this is the last box of boyfriend-related stuff I’ll ever send. The universe so far hasn’t shown any inclination of being kind of enough to answer a question like that; I don’t even know if I’d want it to, if I had the chance.

What I do know is: sending this here, now, in this place, doesn’t feel like a do-over. Infinite do-overs are great, but that’s only true if we’ve come to a full stop and start, which isn’t quite the case. It’s more like...being with Arthur feels like painting a really long line with a brush, and sometimes the paint gets thin and that line almost peters out on the page, but the paint is still there, super super faintly. Then all one of us has to do is dip the brush and the line is strong again, like something connecting us, looping around us in infinite little spirals from here to Wesleyan, from Arthur back to me, last June to last August to all the days inbetween and around again early this month when Arthur showed up at my door and dipped the brush, where it’ll loop back around again when I take my train from here to Wesleyan in May: an infinite line.

Even if one of us can’t see it all the time, what if we just have to trust that even when it’s weak, it’s still there? What if its my book and Arthur’s letter to Lindsay that could have gone wrong but didn’t, and both of us, somehow discovering each other again and again and again?

What if it’s not the universe who decides when we find each other and when we fall in love and when we see each other across a hundred miles?

What if it’s up to us?


End file.
